I remember
a little house in Italy atop a sloping hill...
Mute voice
bound upon an...
Not a poem. Just something I needed to write and...
No need to comment or rate or read, actually...
Hanging in the fissure of a whalebone,
mourning songs like foghorns...
Father,
Today I was emigrated to another...
Yesterday
I was haunted by fingerprints...
I think about death in the morning
while combing my hair, examining...
You are not obligated
to pick a brush and paint...
I am the night sky that can be heard
in a dark tunnel of a past that haunts...
You are
The Queensland cane fields I keep...
Over the rigid and dreary mountains,
down by the riverside, amidst withered stalks...
I daily traverse
a flat terrain of logic...